Bye, Bye Beautiful
by Kitten Kisses
Summary: The thoughts of various characters concerning Oscar on/around/after July 14th, 1789. Contains spoilers. Oscar. Rosalie. Alain. Bernard. Girodelle. Marie Antoinette. Fersen. Louis Joseph. Madame de Jarjayes. General de Jarjayes. Loulou.
1. Oscar

**Bye, Bye Beautiful**  
**By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Oscar**

Her eyes slid closed, and everyone knew that she had given up.

Oscar François de Jarjayes was pronounced dead only minutes later.

She welcomed death with open arms, let the darkness swallow her because it wasn't nearly as dark as life was. How could she have known that in darkness she would find light?

He was waiting for her, and she ran to him. She swore that he would no longer be her shadow. He laughed and picked her up and spun her around and she let him. The skies were blue, the grass was green, and light was everywhere.

Was that the oak tree? The river they had nearly drowned in but had so many happy memories about? Her horse?

He introduced her to his parents, and they smiled and shared a look that made her blush. André only laughed and let his hand rest on her waist. They napped under an apple tree and ate and ate and never got full. Water tasted better than any wine and felt good against her skin. She kissed him and he kissed her, and her lungs didn't feel as if they were going to explode. She couldn't explain the joy that bubbled up from deep within her.

She didn't care about earth or France or life or death. She had almost everything she could ever want with her. She couldn't recall ever being so happy in her entire life.

He could see her with two eyes, now, but she told him that it didn't matter. She'd love him even if he couldn't see at all. They didn't need sight. She loved resting in his arms, loved touching his hair, his face, loved waking up to eternal light, loved sitting with him by the crystal-clear water listening to the sound of his voice as he spoke to her.

They never tired of the company of the other. They spent a lifetime so close and yet so distant. Eternity was one thing that they would spend _together_. She heard him laugh more times in an instant than he had laughed in his entire life, and she loved seeing him so happy.

They would watch the children playing and laughing and giggling, and she would rest her head on his shoulder and just smile at their antics. Louis-Joseph was among them, healthy and carefree and happy. She and André had only spent one night together, and though Oscar could not regret, she wondered what a child, born of their love for one another, of their own, might have been like.

Perhaps they had been there a moment, perhaps a lifetime, before a young child approached them. "Mama? Papa?"

They both stared in confusion, thinking he had mistaken them for someone else, but the boy smiled. "You carried me inside you," he said. "I remember fireflies and pine trees. I've been waiting for you for my entire life. I love you!" He threw his arms around them and the three embraced under the shade of their oak tree.

She didn't think of Earth or of blood. She didn't worry about the monarchy or the Revolution.

She saw her son and her husband and she laughed and smiled and only cried tears of happiness. She loved. She cherished.

And she waited for the others. Perhaps for a moment, perhaps for a lifetime.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

This will be chaptered. Just a bunch of short introspective pieces on various characters concerning Oscar's death. Originally this was going to be a oneshot and Oscar only got two lines (the first two, if you were wondering), but then I decided that 100 to 200 words for each character wasn't enough, so I gave Oscar her own chapter and divided up everyone else's, too.

Up next is Rosalie.


	2. Rosalie

**Bye, Bye Beautiful**  
**By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Rosalie**

Rosalie almost couldn't believe it. Oscar, giving up on something she believed in, in her own life? No! This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Lady Oscar couldn't be dead; it just wasn't possible. No, no, _no_!

But she had no choice…she had to accept it.

There was no heartbeat, no breath, not even an almost noticeable trickle of air coming from her slightly parted lips. She was so very still.

She cried and cried, and she hated herself for it. Would Lady Oscar want her to cry over her death like she'd cried over everything else? No, she would not. Rosalie dried her tears and lived because Oscar could not.

Over the years that followed, she cried for every time Oscar had been hurt, for every moment the commander spent drinking alcohol, for every night she'd fallen asleep in front of a blazing fire exhausted beyond belief, for every single tear she'd shed for every difficult problem she'd had to face. She didn't know why she cried so much for Oscar, for each and every second the other woman had been hurt or in pain.

She felt like all she did was cry while people fought a war. She would dry her tears and live another day only to cry again. How long would it take for the pain to subside? How much longer would she see her precious friend die in her dreams? Oscar had looked strangely peaceful in death, almost happy, even, but Rosalie couldn't help but remember what her life had been like.

Oscar deserved every happiness, every joy. Rosalie missed the times when Oscar would laugh. She missed the moments when Oscar would tease her for her shabby fencing skills. She wondered what had happened to the days that had almost faded from her mind.

She would press the white paper rose to her cheek and wish she could see Oscar one last time. Just the thought of her—in her dashing military uniform, her hair shining from the bright sunlight and her blue eyes happy again—brought a smile to her face, and she would recall things she'd almost forgotten.

Her friend riding her lovely horse, shoulders back and straight, hair curled around her face, Oscar's shocked expression at Jeanne's trial, Oscar's apology after she returned from a bar and Rosalie had waited up all night for her, worried absolutely sick… Oscar's sleeping face, peaceful and calm as it had been when Rosalie first came to the Jarjayes estate. She always wondered if Oscar had looked that way a long time ago, if the woman in the military uniform hadn't always been so stricken with grief and worry and heartache.

Seeing her only once more would never be enough; if she saw her again, she'd never want to let her go.

Only one thing gave her comfort. Oscar was with André.

He would make her happy. He had that ability. He'd been there for her all along, even when she hadn't been. She knew that André had been waiting for Oscar for his entire life; he could fill a void that she herself never could.

But despite that knowledge, she still couldn't help but feel that small twinge of sorrow when she glimpsed the pale paper rose in the moonlight that streamed through her bedroom window as she tried to sleep. It looked almost ethereal, sitting harmlessly on her dressing table as the light nearly engulfed it, and Rosalie wondered if her beautiful friend was watching over her.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

I always wondered about Rosalie. She seemed a bit sad even after many years had passed in the anime. The poor woman meets her heroine once more only for her to die soon after. I'm sure she sometimes felt guilty about some of the things Oscar had to suffer from (like the scene when she takes the wineglass from Oscar's hand). I can only imagine that even after Oscar's death, Rosalie might reflect back on things like that and wish it had been different.


	3. Alain

**Bye, Bye Beautiful   
By: Manna**

…_**xOx…**_

**Alain**

He took her military uniform jacket.

Nobody knew he'd done it. Her family didn't ask about its whereabouts, and he kept it hung in the back of a crude closet on a hanger he'd carved himself. It was in the same condition it had been when he'd managed to slide it off of her delicate shoulders.

It was all he had of her. Her face began to fade from his mind, and he couldn't remember her voice anymore. In the confusion following the fall of the Bastille, he had been smart enough to disappear. War? He'd had enough. He lost his two best friends in the so-called Revolution. He'd _lost_ far too much.

Sometimes when he slept, he'd dream of her, and he'd awaken to memories of blonde hair blowing in a light breeze, of snow falling gently around her, of her lips and her eyes and that determination he admired even after losing her.

The fabric of her uniform was rough, and it smelled of gunpowder and made him remember the sound of cannons firing and he sighed at the sight of her falling under a shower of bullets like a broken marionette whose strings had been severed.

But he wanted to remember her so much it hurt sometimes. He didn't want to ever forget someone like her; she was one-of-a-kind. People thought him strange, living alone, not marrying… He only farmed and tended two graves, they murmured. They wouldn't understand Oscar, would never believe his stories about the former Royal Guard commander who won over the French Guard Company B with her fiery spirit and her tears and the fact that she actually _cared_.

Whenever he felt like giving up, when life became almost too much to bear, he pushed his own threadbare clothes aside and took the uniform jacket from his closet and smelled the gunpowder and heard her tell him to keep firing the cannons; he saw the acceptance on her face as bullets left her body bloodied, and he felt pain in his shoulder that was just as strong as when he tried to protect her.

And he remembered… He remembered that determination. It always filled him with courage. He would place the uniform in the back of the closet with a renewed sense of self.

Life would go on until you died. What was left was a gift. It was something he'd learned from Oscar, though he hadn't quite realized it until she was dead.

She had been so _full_ of life. Even when she had not wanted to go on, she raised her sword high and shouted. He didn't know why he thought it was inspirational.

Sometimes, when he awoke on a hazy summer morning, he would blink away the remnants of a dream and listen carefully as her almost-voice faded from his mind. _"Fire! Fire!" _she would shout; her voice was not quite there and her face was blurry, but he would get out of bed, ready to hoe the weeds and nurture his plants, ready to roast in the baking summer sun that reminded him of her overwhelming presence, ready to smile at blue skies—rain or shine—that reminded him of her eyes, ready to _live_.

For her. Because of her. Thanks to her.

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

You might think it's rather strange, even downright creepy, for Alain to take Oscar's military jacket, but she's dead. She won't need it. And this is the same guy who brought Oscar a lock of Diane's hair.

It's also inspired in part by my sister, whose very good friend committed suicide last year on September 11th. He had given her a jacket/hoodie some months before his death, and even almost a year later, sleeps with it at the head of her bed by her pillows.

Some things might have seemed a bit contradictory, but Alain strikes me as that type of person. How he thinks she is fading from his memory, but then he remembers her voice? I've had those experiences before, myself. Memories tend to fade, but once in awhile I recall a loved one's hair or eyes, or the shape of their nose, or the way their glasses looked. (More explanations will most likely be posted at my LiveJournal.)


	4. Bernard

**Bye, Bye Beautiful****  
By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Bernard**

He spent many nights awake after the death of Oscar François. He preferred to call her that because in his mind, she no longer had the last name of a noble. She gave up her family and threw away her rank and her money and her title as a countess when her military badge fell against the cobblestone street and she sided with the commoners.

He owed her his life, he thought, but she had said that he owed his life to André instead. He believed her and therefore didn't owe her a thing.

But why, then, did he find himself laying awake at night, his heart twisted into a knot that he seemed to be unable to fix?

At first, he blamed it on his wife. She was so emotional, always open with her feelings, and he loved that about her. He wondered sometimes if perhaps she was born that way, or if she purposefully let her emotions loose because her dearest and most precious friend had been deprived of the freedom to do so.

She told him that Lady Oscar had been unhappy. He heard about all of Oscar's sleepless nights, of her tears and her many bottles of wine. But he could not understand. He didn't want to.

Their first fight was about a dead woman.

How could she have been unhappy, he demanded to know, when she had had more opportunities and money and luxuries than either of them would ever have?

Rosalie had burst into tears, typical of her. He left their small, shabby house is a huff. He just wanted her to stop crying for someone who would never come back. Why was she letting the past overcome her when she had him?

He was being selfish, he realized. Jealous, even. And over someone who was dead!

He used his influence to get his wife a job taking care of the queen while she awaited her execution. That night and every night that followed, when she dreamed of that beautiful French Guard dying, he would hold her close and whisper tender words in her ear.

He would listen to her stories, one after another after another until most men would have gotten annoyed; he listened and he found that he enjoyed the sound of his wife's voice as she told him tales of happier times. He loved the range of emotions she went through—the joy, the sorrow, even the admiration and affection.

Before he knew it, Rosalie's sobs weren't waking him up anymore, but he still found himself looking at the paper rose that sat in a vase on their dressing table.

He wondered what death was like, if Oscar had been happy, if the flowers he and Rosalie had planted on her and André's graves were still in bloom, if André's eye was able to see again, and if that fact made Oscar François Grandier happy.

He started to call her that. It was his wife's idea. It wasn't the last name of a noble, but of a man that loved Oscar very much, a man that Oscar had given up everything to be with, to fight alongside.

When Rosalie announced that she was pregnant, he had been excited. A baby! She cried because Oscar loved children but had never been able to have any of her own. He held her, stroked her hair and told her that everything would be okay.

Their second fight was also about a dead woman.

Rosalie thought it was a great idea—the possibility of having a daughter or a son to name after her heroine—but secretly, he prayed to God and hoped that she would change her mind. Wasn't one Oscar—a silent hero of the Revolution, of his wife's childhood—enough? Nobody could ever compare to her, he argued, and it was unfair to give a child a name that they might feel obligated to live up to.

He didn't want that kind of destiny for his son or daughter, he said, and reluctantly, she agreed.

When the baby was born and hungry or tired or crying, they would rock her back and forth and take turns telling stories about the most amazing person they'd ever known, about a woman on a white horse who loved and fought and lived more fiercely and with more determination than anybody else.

During every story, their daughter would stare at the paper rose on the dressing table and just smile and smile as if she was seeing something they could not, and Bernard wondered if perhaps the beautiful French commander was watching over them all.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

I always thought that Bernard probably loved Rosalie for a lot of reasons, but I don't think her crying really got on his nerves too badly. After all, isn't it better to be open and honest about your emotions than closed up or false like most of the nobility was? I think he might have appreciated some of her honesty/openness.

But as in the manga, Bernard seemed a bit jealous of Rosalie's adoration of Oscar. I don't' blame him. But I can't blame her for not wanting to let Oscar go, either. I think these conflicts only make them seem more…human.


	5. Girodelle

**Bye, Bye Beautiful   
By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Girodelle**

He heard the news on July 21st, seven full days after it had actually happened. He had been in his study, reading in one of the exceptionally rare moments that gave him the free time to do so.

At first, his lips refused to speak, andafter a long pause, he told the messenger that there was a Revolution going on—it was _not_ the time to try to be funny.

But the man did not laugh. Instead, he bowed his head low and mumbled his condolences under his breath.

So, his Sylphide was dead…

So, she had turned against the nobility, her own people, choosing to side with the commoners instead.

He was certain his heart shattered along with the wineglass that had been held gently in his hand.

Days, nights, weeks… Time passed, and with it, he could not forget her. It was as if he was fated to remember her face clearly, her blonde hair, her sharp eyes. Even the angle of her nose was recalled whenever he thought of her! He wanted to be angry like many other noblemen were, but he could not be.

How dare she betray them, the others would say.

Girodelle could not agree. How could _they_ betray _her_? He asked that question to himself so many times that it was almost some kind of a sacred ritual. First thing in the morning, he would ask God for an answer to his question, and he would continue asking until the moment sleep overtook him. But sleep did not take him away from her unusual beauty or her strong will.

On the contrary, he found himself dreaming of days that he hadn't thought of in years. He relived the fire that he and Oscar and André had escaped from, he remembered patrolling with her, remembered watching her command the troops… He could not forget.

With Oscar's pardon, he received his own, and he had sworn his loyalty twice-over to the Queen of France. Perhaps it was best that way, since Oscar turned her back on her.

He felt doomed, but he did not mind too much.

After all, he would fight in the Revolution. The Palace Guards were called to duty only days after receiving word of his beloved Oscar's death, and he hoped that he would not have to fight against the same people Oscar had died to protect. It seemed terribly uncouth, perhaps downright disgusting, to think of firing on the people who had won her trust and a piece of her heart.

Oscar was dead, and with her, André had died, too. He could only hope that they were happy in the afterlife. But real life, as beautiful as it could be at times, was a nightmare. Angry commoners, angry royalists… Everyone was so very angry!

And he…he sat in his uniform and sighed. People were impressed by his calm appearance, but he knew he only felt that way because death was something he was not afraid of.

"Have you ever lived while you were dead?" he asked a man of similar rank, once, while they awaited orders. The man had merely commented on his relaxed expression despite the fact that thousands of women and men and children were making an attempt to break down the palace gates.

He knew that the man didn't understand. Nobody could understand him now. He had reached a point where he walked and ate and gave orders, but he never felt anything that he was doing. He just did it out of habit.

Death came rather swiftly the very next day as he led a patrol through the once-beautiful Paris. A bullet, he thought, as he slumped over his horse.

Victor Clement de Girodelle had thought that when he died, he would see, in his last moments, his blonde goddess. But he did not.

He saw his mother and his father—both long dead, now—and one of his brothers, who had died only months before when his home had been torched. He saw blue skies and calm waters and cleanliness. His family…their clothes were not stained with war. His heart ached with happiness at that knowledge.

He did not see Oscar among them.

And strangely, he did not mind.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

This is Girodelle in my mind. I like him as a character, and I think the poor man would be feeling very torn between continuing fighting on the side of the nobility, and just getting the heck out of France. After all, I'm sure he could easily have left France, but it would not be like him to do so. But at the same time, firing on the same people Oscar died to protect? That would be hard for him to do. Every time he saw them he'd think of Oscar...you know, maybe he'd wonder if she was still alive, and if she was, he could be shooting at her. Anyway, feedback is much appreciated!


	6. Marie Antoinette

**Bye, Bye Beautiful****  
By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Marie Antoinette**

She cried.

She cried because _au revoir_ was a lie.

At first, she found it hard to believe. Oscar had turned against her, choosing to side with the commoners of France, instead of her own beloved queen? No! What had she done to make Oscar run from her in such a way? What else could she have done for the one person who had been there since her first day in what had been a strange and new country? She'd given her rank and only asked for her loyalty in return, but Oscar had requested a demotion.

A demotion!

Why in the world would she want a lower rank? Why had her friend refused pay raises and offers of a better pension? Was it her? Something about her that bothered the former Royal Guard?

But why, then, had she never said anything about it? Why did she only come forward with an air of formality that Marie Antoinette hated to see, only to request a handful of things throughout her entire life?

Stop gambling, she'd asked. Don't increase my wages, my pension, she'd said. Be a good queen. Serve France.

_Au revoir…_

It made her choke to hear the echo of what had ultimately been Oscar's last words to her. Well, she would never see her oldest friend again. But thinking of her in that blue uniform made her heart ache, so she remembered a small blonde woman on a white horse who wore a uniform of the same color, trimmed in gold.

It made her happy to remember the old Oscar, cold as ice but always there for her.

Oscar, innocent as a budding flower not yet opened, wide-eyed and pure, not yet tainted by the world.

"What happened to you, my dear, lost friend?" she murmured to the night sky from her balcony. When had the commander's eyes hardened, when had she stopped trying to subtly give advice? When, when, when, when, and why? Why did she betray her? Why did she join the commonfolk, people born with no breeding, nothing? What did these breadless people have to offer her beautiful friend that she, Queen of France, did not?

She had money and etiquette and love and Oscar's best interests in mind, so why had that not been enough to win her heart? Why had she felt she was always a step behind the other woman, despite actually being older, more sophisticated and more important to the country than her?

In the end, Oscar's betrayal was all that mattered, she thought. She couldn't forget the tears that Oscar shed on their last day together… Tears… Oscar…crying? She should have known in that instant…but she realized it too late.

It was the first and the last time she ever saw the icy commander cry.

Some nobles wanted Oscar's body to be burned, but despite what Oscar had done, Marie Antoinette could not allow it. She sent the broken corpse home without daring to even look at the bloodied body of what had been her closest friend, and later learned that Oscar had been buried next to her husband in Arras.

Husband? Oscar had been married?

"Do you remember André, Your Majesty?" Victor Clement de Girodelle kneeled by her side, his head bowed low. "She loved him with all her heart. She told me as much, herself."

Marie Antoinette could hardly believe it. Married! Oscar!

She wished she had known sooner. She would never have allowed either of them to die. Oscar had loved and lived and died, and she… Well, she loved, and she lived… But like her friend, her love had been unaccepted by the world and completely and utterly impossible. Anger was not something she had ever felt towards Oscar, but she felt it when she thought of André.

Why had they died? Why? It was such a waste! It was a terrible, terrible waste! If Oscar had loved André, and André had loved Oscar, why hadn't they been married much sooner? As Queen, she could intervene on their behalf! Oh, for love… For love she had done so many things! For love, she had suffered and cried and yearned.

And Oscar. Oscar _had_ love, and yet… she allowed that love to be set aside. She could have run away and married her servant and they could have been happy _together_.

Marie Antoinette could not judge someone for love. If she could have run away with Fersen, she would have. She would have happily left her life behind to be with the one man who meant everything to her! But that…was an impossibility, and she had accepted the fact that her romance would be forever silent.

Oscar could have had everything she could not. So why, then, had she not taken that opportunity?

She cried.

She cried because she couldn't understand, and she had no way of ever asking, because _au revoir_ was a lie.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

First, _au revoir_ means, basically, "I'll see you later", as in a farewell one might say with the intent of seeing that person again soon. _Adieu_, on the other hand, means "unto God", with _Dieu_ meaning "God". You are handing someone over to God's protection until you next see them. Of course, it's also used as a farewell, "Goodbye", and this is why Oscar says _Adieu_ before her death, and not _au revoir_.

Marie Antoinette was a character I found quite compelling. Despite the fact that I really only cared about Oscar and André, I must admit that her and Fersen's story is a story of its own, and just as tragic, if not more than, Oscar and André's. I know that most of the characters in _Bye, Bye Beautiful_ are characters that most people reading this really could care less about. But I feel that every character is important, from Pierre to Michel. These characters were shown in the anime and/or the manga with a purpose behind their presence. Without them, our beloved Oscar (and André!) would not be the same characters that we adore.

Thanks for reading! Feedback is very much appreciated. Even the smallest bit helps!


	7. Fersen

**Bye, Bye Beautiful****  
By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Fersen**

Nobody thought that Oscar would betray France, least of all him. She had always gone out of her way to remain loyal to her country and the monarchy. He wondered what had changed her mind.

Leading her military regiment against her own people! Against the nobility of France!

The news of her passing reached him long after the actual event. In a letter from Marie Antoinette, only one sentence was written, placed directly in the center of the paper. After reading it, the paper fell to the floor and stayed there for nearly an hour.

_Oscar is dead_, his beloved had written, and the parchment was stained with tears and the scent of Marie Antoinette's favorite perfume.

He did not cry. Oscar was strong and a man in her own right, he thought. She had lived proudly, beautifully, as a woman and as a man. There was nothing to cry about.

But he would think of her whenever he thought of Marie Antoinette, because the queen reminded him of love, and love reminded him of Oscar, and then he would wonder if Oscar ever found love.

He would not take back his words to her for anything. There was only a love of agony for him. He thought of his most treasured memories of his queen, and they broke his heart because he would never be with her. But for Oscar's sake, he hoped that a love of joy did exist… Surely, she deserved it. Perhaps more than anyone else.

Oscar had been a dear friend to him, and André had been a good man—far better than he, but not so different. It was too bad they were both dead. But how fortunate for them that they were! France was in turmoil, and he knew deep down inside that he had to return to Marie Antoinette's side. She needed him, and he needed her. Even if he could not hold her, could not kiss her, could not cherish her the way a man cherished his wife, he could see her and know that she was well.

And that, for him, was enough.

So he packed, and when he left, he wondered what Oscar would do if she had not died. Would she have returned to the side of her queen, or would she have lived the rest of her life in the Revolution, fighting the nobility and everything it stood for?

No matter what her decision would have been under those circumstances, he knew that his dear old friend would have followed her heart, much like she had when she'd begged him to let her go because "her" André was in trouble. Her André? He remembered being shocked at that, at the terrified look on her face because her quiet servant was in danger. It was then that he realized Oscar's carefully-built wall, the one that guarded her emotions and her heart, had crumbled in a brief moment of weakness, and as her claim on André left her lips, Fersen knew that if André did not live, Oscar would surely die, too.

Oscar had a beautiful heart… Pure, sweet, and as innocent as an infant in the womb, sheltered from the world around it.

Ah, she would surely follow her heart. He smiled sadly to himself and looked back at his home, the one that he was leaving far behind. Yes, Oscar had followed her heart, and even though she was dead now—perhaps because she followed it—he had no doubts that she had died happy.

He knew that he would do the same. Anything for love, he thought as he turned and left his family and his life behind to follow his heart wherever it chose to lead him.

* * *

**_...xOx..._**

**Author Notes:**

This didn't seem to really match up with the others. I didn't want it to seem too much like _Beauty Blooms_, so I cut off before Antoinette's death, since this was supposed to be focused more on Oscar than Marie. Feedback is appreciated!


	8. Louis Joseph

**Bye, Bye Beautiful****  
By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Louis-Joseph**

Death was full of light for him, though he had expected nothing less. He floated in a sea of images: blonde curls and blue eyes, splendid dresses and military uniforms, a white horse with a silky mane.

When he opened his eyes, he was startled by the feeling of a soft muzzle pressed against his chest, of warm, moist breath against his face, of a distinctly familiar nicker.

He sat up and threw his arms around the equine's neck, caressing its nose as he marveled at the fact that he could live and breathe and speak without pain, without tightness in his chest, without coughing and feeling the bitter taste of blood on his tongue.

"Where is Oscar?" he asked her horse, but of course, the animal did not answer him. He wondered why her horse was with him in this place, but when he asked, the mare only blinked her large brown eyes at him as if to tell him that she did not know where her master was, either.

So they set off to find her, him riding bareback, the smile on his lips so wide it could potentially split the heavens. He rode for an eternity before he noticed the children.

They were like him, he realized.

They, too, were dead.

But they laughed and they played together, and not one of them hurt or cried or was in pain; the causes of their individual deaths were not important. Nobody knew, and nobody bothered to ask. Their clothes did not matter, either—it was as if he could not even physically see them—and when they asked him to join in their games, he readily agreed.

He had never played games with groups of children he did not know. But somehow, he felt as if he knew them all already, as if he'd been introduced individually to every last one. There was Pierre, and oh! Michel!

They did not know that he had been the crown prince of France, and he did not know which of them were of noble blood and which were from common birth. They took turns riding Oscar's horse, and they laughed and sang and played games together in perfect harmony for another eternity.

Then, with a sudden brightness, he saw her, curled against the side of a man, a smile on her face that made her eyes light up in a way that he had never seen before. His heart thudded with joy and understanding and a _wealth_ of knowledge. He ran to her, threw his arms around her neck and kissed her cheek before pulling away and allowing himself to just _look_ at her.

Her face glowed with contentment, and seeing this made him smile.

"Oscar," he said simply, and it suddenly seemed so very natural to call her by only her first name, as if they both stood equally as adults…and he supposed that now, they did.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

I wanted to do one for little Louis-Joseph. He was such a great character. I changed things up a bit with him... like Girodelle, I don't think Louis-Joseph needs Oscar, but unlike Girodelle, he gets to see her in Heaven (in his story). Who knows how long it takes? Five minutes after her death, a year? A literal eternity or two? It doesn't matter. Also, Michel and Pierre...do those names sound familiar to you at all? Kudos if you remember the characters!

Feedback is greatly appreciated!


	9. Madame Louisa de Jarjayes

**Bye, Bye Beautiful****  
By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Madame Louisa de Jarjayes**

She cried on her husband's shoulder and found no solace there.

Oscar, her youngest child, the one that was supposed to outlive them all, was dead.

Her husband's arm around her felt like cold lead, and the air in the room was heavy.

She returned to her room. She had embroidery to work on, and for some reason, it felt more comforting to stitch those five letters over and over into pillowcases and sheets and every scrap piece of cloth she had than it did to stand there and lean against Renier. She rarely left her room, and Renier never came to see her. He spent his time in his study with his papers, and she in her rocking chair with her needle and thread. Dinner was served, but nobody came to eat it.

In the month of July, Louisa de Jarjayes lost two sons and a daughter; oh, her most beautiful daughter! Her poor, sweet, innocent baby… She could remember holding that howling infant, and oh! How she had cried at the sight of the world that greeted her!

She smiled sadly and ran her fingers over the newly-finished handkerchief that lay in her lap. _Oscar_ stood out in vivid red and yellow and orange. No, she thought, tossing the kerchief to the side. Those colors did not suit her, just as the beautiful portrait painted by the famous Armand did not suit her.

Oscar was a warm spring day, the colors and feelings of light and newness and clarity, not those of a burning sun and fields at sundown. A new white cloth, several yards of what could be considered a clean slate. She started with the spun gold that resembled Oscar's blonde hair.

Perhaps days passed, perhaps only hours. Her back ached, her eyes burned, and her fingers cramped with every stitch. But still, she pressed on.

If only she had stopped her husband, convinced him somehow that raising her baby as a man was a terrible idea. Would Oscar have been happy going by another name, living a completely different life, married to someone not of her choosing?

Tears blurred her vision as she toiled over a clear blue sky and green grass warmed by the sun. No, no, she wouldn't have been.

But! But she had grown up unhappy. Little Oscar had been sad, depressed, hurting, and drunk more times than she had been happy. So what was the difference, really?

Her fingers took hold of her spool of green thread, and she started to stitch, almost as if she felt someone else's hands guiding her own, weaving the colors through the blonde curls that stood out against the bluest sky.

A life laid out for you, bit by bit, marrying someone you didn't know and didn't even want to know, learning embroidery and the harp and how to be a good wife. Was it so bad, really? Wouldn't Oscar have come to accept her fate as a woman in the same manner that she accepted her fate as a supposed man?

She paused before tying off the green thread. Was arranged marriage really so terrible? Her wedding ring glimmered in the almost moonlight that filtered through the open window, and Madame de Jarjayes looked over at the empty bed, at the room that had been empty for days and days and days.

No, she decided. It was not so bad. It could be a lot worse. Oscar had been given an opportunity to become someone that women in arranged marriages only dreamt of becoming. She had her freedom.

But, Louisa thought as ran her fingertips along the different colors of thread, it was a sad sort of freedom, like that of the nobles and commoners of France. The poor thought that the nobles had all the freedom, with their money and their fancy clothes, but the rich were forced to marry for money even if they didn't want to. The nobles thought the poor had freedom, and they did because they could marry whomever they wanted, but they did not have the money to take pleasure in it.

So what was freedom worth, then, if one could never enjoy it? Ah, Oscar… Oscar…

She wondered if her daughter had ever gotten the chance to find happiness in her supposed freedom.

She reached for the red, but something stopped her. She could have sworn that calloused fingers, hardened from hard work, moved her own to hover over a spool of pure white.

White… Innocent and pure like a new beginning, a spring day; as perfect and lovely as Oscar would always be in her eyes.

She began to stitch again, small white flowers across the warm grass. Not daisies, not daffodils, but roses…what felt like tens of thousands of roses.

When she was finished, she smiled ruefully and ran her fingers over the delicate stitching before running her thread through her needle again.

No image suited her youngest child better, she decided. No painting in the world could match up. Though lovely, Armand's portrait of her daughter dressed in clothes belonging to Mars did not seem to fit.

In the lower right-hand corner of the embroidered cloth, she wrote Oscar's name, and suddenly, driven by something she could not quite explain, underneath, she stitched: _In Arras_.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

Another dorky ending. I'm sure you know who guided Madame de Jarjayes through her embroidery, and also the picture she stitched.

Louisa is a name I made up for her. I think it fits. Renier is the first name of the real de Jarjayes (who wasn't really a General).

Anyway, feedback is very much appreciated! Thank you for reading!


	10. General Renier de Jarjayes

**Bye, Bye Beautiful****  
By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**General de Jarjayes**

He stood on a hill in Arras and wondered how things had come to this. His youngest child had betrayed the monarchy, betrayed him; her punishment, given by the very people whom she had turned against, had been death. And death was so very permanent! With an expressionless face, he stared out over the rolling green hills and the wildflowers; his breath caught in his throat at the sight of his child's grave.

A grave!

He could hardly believe that he was looking at a headstone.

He could hardly believe that his daughter was dead.

A parent should never have to outlive his child, he thought. A mother, a father, it made no difference; neither should never have to bury their own baby.

Her last words made a crumpling sound as he wrapped his fist around them in his pocket.

_Thank you very much for all the love and mercy you have shared with a daughter like me._

What did that mean? Did she think that she did not deserve his love, his mercy? A light breeze swept through the trees and over the hill; he sighed and let his eyes close. He was tired, so very tired. Tired of hurting, of aching, of loving…of being angry.

A daughter like her… Like her… Dammit, he loved her with all his heart, didn't he? Had she been unable to see it? But he showed her every single day! He had raised her as a man, hadn't he?

She was the youngest, the cadet daughter; as such, she would be the hardest to marry off. But she was the most beautiful, the smartest, the most cunning and also the most frail. Perhaps he had been too harsh on her at times—many times, he realized—but he had done it with her best interests in mind. She had to succeed! She had to! If she didn't, she would become nothing. He knew that, he knew it, and he took the information to heart and followed its directions.

As the years had passed, he felt that he had done the right thing by raising her as a man. She was far too sharp-witted and opinionated to be a good wife, he remembered thinking. But, oh! If he had only known about the Revolution, he would have married her to a nice man before her fifteenth birthday. All of her sisters had been married by that age, and all of them seemed happy…

If he had known earlier, he would have done anything to save her life! Anything to protect her from the bullets that had pierced her through, that had drained the life out of her that he had helped to create.

It had hurt to see her body lying there in the back of that small cart. It had hurt more than anything in the entire world. A daughter, a son… It didn't matter anymore, and perhaps it had ceased to matter for quite some time. That was his child lying there! That was the child he had made, the child he had raised, the child he had watched grow into a fine, upstanding adult!

Why had she taken André with her? Why did they both have to die? Why did he have to lose three people in two days? Why was the house suddenly so empty, and why did Oscar's room seem so plain, as if she never lived in it? Why was there blood on her clothes and why had she been so tired all of the time, and _damn everything to hell_ why hadn't he known she was so terribly sick and why hadn't he stopped her from going to fight in the Revolution and why, why, _why_?!

Where had he gone wrong? What had he done that made Oscar hide things from people, from everyone, from _him_? She had consumption, for God's sake! Consumption! And had he noticed? Had he bothered to find out why she was always so pale and why she coughed so much, and why that summer cold never seemed to go away?

He couldn't speak, couldn't laugh, couldn't even cry. He was disappointed, and for what seemed like the first time in his life, it wasn't in Oscar; it was in himself.

He knelt down beside her grave, and threw a glance to the one right next to it that marked where her supposed husband lay. Why hadn't he seen _this_ earlier, he thought? Wouldn't Oscar and André both still be alive if he had? Couldn't he have sent her somewhere to recover—perhaps to this very place?

No, no… It was too late to wonder what if, why, how, if only. She was dead. André was dead. Nanny…was dead. Guilt weighed him down, and he patted the head of his daughter's tombstone; it was a silent apology to her.

He was sorry for every time he had wronged her, for every punishment that had been unnecessarily harsh, for every unkind word and every time he had acted in anger against her. He would never return here, he thought. He would stick out the Revolution, he would fight and fight until he had no fight left in him…and when he died, he would be buried far away from the rolling hills of Arras; he would lie next to his wife and the babies that had never made it.

After some time, he stood and snapped off one of the small roses that grew by the headstones, pinning it to his coat. As he turned and walked away, not bothering to look back for fear that he would find himself unable to leave, he stroked the silky petals with a thumb and forefinger.

He climbed into his carriage and ordered it back to Versailles. On the long drive home, he studied the flower, his eyes soaking up the cream-white petals that were tainted by a rosy flush. He thought, for a fleeting moment, that the red soiled the purity of such a beautiful rose, but then he realized that the color would never, ever reach the rose's center.

It was like his daughter, he decided.

Despite how the world might have tried to push her from the path she felt was right, how it tried to corrupt and change her, she never let it touch her heart.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

Ahaha, corny ending, ahoy! Yes. Well, I had a lot of fun writing this one. In the end, in both the anime and the manga, General de Jarjayes tells Oscar to follow her heart, wherever her passion may lead her. And she does.

Other quick notes about this chapter, since I do believe it warrants them, can be found in my Livejournal. I'll put a link in my profile for you.


	11. Loulou

**Bye, Bye Beautiful  
By: Manna

* * *

  
**

…_**xOx…**_

**Loulou**

She didn't understand what was going on. What was this Revolution that everybody kept talking about? Why did Mother cry and Father pace back and forth all day long? Where was Oscar? Where was her handsome André?

Everybody was talking about them, but she looked and looked and still couldn't find them. Oscar's hair was so pretty, and André was so tall that she knew she would find them easily if they were there.

Her mother sent her to get some pretty flowers from the flowerbeds. She was excited because Mother never let her cut flowers from the lavish gardens. When she asked what they were for, tears sprung to her mother's eyes before a reply tumbled from her lips, her voice sounding broken.

"They're for your Aunt Oscar and… André, sweetheart."

Oh! Well, if they were for Oscar and André, she would do a really good job. She ran outside and picked the most beautiful flowers that she could. Right before she went inside, she snipped off an armful of white roses. She remembered seeing André stare at them, and she reasoned that he must like them very much!

But after the long drive, when she got out of the carriage and they stopped walking to stand in front of two stones, confusion flickered across her face. What was this? Rose bushes had been planted beside the graves. Graves. They were graves.

Suddenly, everything hit her at once, and throwing her flowers on the recently churned up dirt, she took her mother's skirts in her hands and buried her face in the thick fabric.

"They're not dead!" she screamed, and she didn't care that she was making a spectacle of herself. Why hadn't anyone told her? Why did they think that she would be too young to understand what death was? She knew what death was! She knew! And now, now she was standing in front of the eternal resting place of…of Aunt Oscar and her handsome André.

She cried, her tears leaving hot wet trails down her cheeks.

"I don't understand, I don't understand," she moaned, and nobody answered her. But she knew why.

They were standing in front of the graves of two people they had known and loved for years, perhaps for a lifetime.

And they didn't understand, either.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

It might seem lame, but I have plans for lovely little Loulou! At any rate, I think she's old enough to know what death is by the year 1789, but she might not realize that Oscar and André are actually dead if nobody told her outright. But confronted with their graves, she really would have no choice but to acknowledge it.

Even though I was older than Loulou would be when I lost my beloved aunt—who was older than Oscar at the time of her death—I still remember it.

Feedback is appreciated, as always. (Sorry for the short chapter.)


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